


Nothing Burns like the Cold

by TheSopherfly



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (in that it resolves this universe's version of Civil War), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones, Bucky Barnes is also the Kingslayer, Bucky is King in the North, Canon-Typical Violence, Civil War Fix-It, Dragons, Explicit Sexual Content, Game of Thrones spoilers, Howard Stark is the Mad King, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), The Iron Throne, Tony is the Mother of Dragons, Trial by Combat, White Walkers, steve knows nothing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-01-05 23:26:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12199524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSopherfly/pseuds/TheSopherfly
Summary: In which Tony Stark is the Mother of Dragons, and Steve Rogers knows nothing.Steve Rogers, once the King in the North, was banished for disobeying orders. A year after his banishment, Steve returns from beyond the wall, bringing the Wildling army to King’s Landing in order to regain his King’s trust.King Stark and his dragons aren’t so easily swayed. Even with his offering, Steve must stand trial for his crimes. Knowing that the council will vote against him, Steve demands a trial by combat, insisting that he fight for himself. Steve blanches when King Stark names his champion: James Buchanan Barnes.





	1. The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a Game of Thrones AU where Civil War has been reinterpreted as Steve disobeying Tony's orders and being banished for it. Differing points of view throughout, including Tony's, Steve's, and Bucky's. Eventual pairing will be Stuckony. This fic is finally off hiatus, though posting may be sporadic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony spends time with his dragons and receives a letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This first chapter is short (closer to a prologue), but the rest will be longer. Many thanks to the wonderful [folklejend](https://folklejend.tumblr.com/) for beta reading!

 

King Stark had never considered the similarities between himself and his dragons. Or if he had, he’d never done it consciously.

With his attention drawn to it, Tony supposed he saw what Lord Barnes meant. Tony was calculating and temperamental. He had thick skin, but didn’t forgive easily when injured. He was protective to a fault. He even breathed fire, figuratively speaking. His word was law throughout the Seven Kingdoms, and Gods help the soul who dared to disobey.

Tony sighed, and Striker nuzzled her big snout into Tony’s hand, no doubt trying to distract him from his irritation. Tony let his palm rest between Striker’s nostrils, hot puffs of air making his cloak shift around him. Striker was the largest dragon by far, the deadliest and most loyal of the three. That wasn’t to say that Snapper and Centurion weren’t loyal; they’d burned cities to the ground and set fleets of ships ablaze just as Striker had. But Striker had always kept closer to Tony than the other two.

The dragon lowered her head, green eyes closing as Tony moved his hand in circles over her snout. Tony saw a similarity there, too, one he didn't care to dwell on. Tony loved being touched. Petted. _Caressed._ It had been a long time since he'd let anyone get close enough to do it.

“I don’t think we’ll tell Lord Barnes about that part,” Tony murmured to himself.

Lord Barnes had stepped in to take Lord Rogers’ place upon Rogers’ banishment. A year of faithful service, and there was no doubt in Tony’s mind that Barnes deserved his new title: King in the North. Barnes had tried to reject the offer; he’d insisted that the North belonged to Rogers. Tony had quashed that argument with sharp eyes. The appointment was _not_ optional.

Something had changed between them since that day. The shift had been so slow, Tony had scarcely noticed it. And then, one evening, he’d caught Barnes staring at him from across the room. Those blue eyes had been dark and cloudy, and Barnes had lingered over Tony with longing in his face, glancing away only once Tony had met his gaze. Certainly, that look spoke of much more than friendship, and Tony had thought to take advantage. Barnes was the only man who might accept an offer to come to Tony's bed for reasons other than ‘I will do as my King commands.’

Tony had, of course, thought better of it. The ruler of the Seven Kingdoms had more important matters to attend. Still. The idea itself was a maddening distraction, one he planned to tell Lord Barnes nothing about.

Striker keened softly, a high-pitched trill of her tongue. Tony had stopped moving. _Fussy thing._ He stroked her scales with the back of his hand, knuckles catching on rough edges.

Soon the keep wouldn't be large enough. Another year or two, and the dragons would have outgrown it. It was cavernous, to be sure, but not enough space for the three of them together. Tony planned to enjoy it as long as he could, seeing his dragons - his children - somewhere private, where no one would disturb them. He spent more and more time hiding away in the keep, concealing himself in the warm darkness. Perhaps that was another thing that Tony and his dragons had in common.

A knock on the door tore him from his thoughts.

“Come in.”

“Sir. A raven from the North.”

Tony held out his hand, and Peter placed the little scroll in his palm, bowing as he did so. Slowly, Tony unrolled it. Familiar cursive letters leapt out at him, the scrawl illegible until Tony blinked away his shock.

_King Stark,_

_I hope this message finds you well. I write to you from Winterfell, the place that I used to call home. It has been well kept. No doubt you saw to that._

_I know that I have caused you pain. I wanted to protect you, to keep you from imagining a gruesome death for those you loved. I see now I was protecting myself. I’m sorry. I took your trust and corrupted it. I ran headlong into battle when you ordered us back, trusting my instincts over your commands. I realize that these are both betrayals. I can never hope to earn your forgiveness; and yet I ask it of you, as my King and as my friend. Please. Forgive me._

_I’ve done as you have commanded. The Wildling army follows me through Westeros, ready to pledge their fealty to you. I come prepared to stand trial for my crimes._

_Yours always, Lord Rogers_

Tony wanted to laugh. Why Rogers hadn’t come to him begging for forgiveness from the first, Tony would never know. What good was stubborn pride when it had earned him banishment? He’d let it tarnish a great friendship, one that couldn't be rebuilt. Tony clenched his jaw. What kind of fool would ruin his goodwill the way Lord Rogers had?

Striker made a growling noise, and Tony knew without turning to look that her lips were curled back in a snarl, baring enormous teeth. He took a breath, trying to control himself. They weren’t in battle. No sense riling up the dragons.  

_I come prepared to stand trial for my crimes._ Of course. There was no doubt in Tony’s mind that Rogers would request a trial by combat. And someone so prideful would never allow another to fight in his place. Rogers’ predictability put him at a disadvantage, one that Tony planned to exploit. As soon he arrived in King’s Landing, Lord Rogers would be met with high drama orchestrated by King Stark himself.

Tony was nothing if not dramatic.

Tony glanced back down at the letter. “Please, forgive me,” he murmured, reading the words aloud. This time, Tony did laugh, just once. It was a bitter thing, and it tasted of betrayal. Forgive Steve Rogers. Tony wondered if it could be done.

_We’ll see, won’t we?_

“Did you want to respond?” Peter had been so quiet, head down, hands clasped in front of him, that Tony had forgotten he was there.

Tony considered for a moment. If he did respond, what would he say? He brought his hand pensively to his lips, tracing the outline of his beard with calloused fingers.

“Yes,” Tony said finally. “Thank you.”

Peter pulled a quill and ink out of his bag, then rifled through to find a scroll. A wooden tablet emerged last, and Tony sat, the tablet on his lap, the quill scratching quickly over the page. He didn’t write much. Less than a minute, and the ink had dried. Peter rolled up the scroll, then cleared the tablet, inclining his head.

“I’ll have this sent at once.”

Tony waited for Peter to disappear from view, then stood, Lord Rogers’ scroll still clutched in his hand. Tony looked at it again, staring at the curling parchment. How small and unassuming it looked held in his palm. Small and unassuming, yes, but full of abject apology that turned Tony's blood cold.

He cast the scroll onto the pile of kindling, stepping slowly backward.

_“Dracarys._ ”

Striker opened her huge jaws, lighting the room with a burst of flame. Tony didn’t move. He stood just out of the blaze’s reach, the heat radiating toward him, and watched the letter burn.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks so much for reading! Just wanted to add a quick note here that this fic will NOT include any character bashing. The Game of Thrones universe has very high stakes, so punishment/forgiveness are treated a little bit differently, but there's no specific tilt for/against Team Iron Man or for/against Team Cap.
> 
> If you have questions about the plot/characters and how I am relating them to their Game of Thrones counterparts, feel free to stop by my [tumblr](https://sopherfly.tumblr.com) and drop me an ask.


	2. Lord Rogers Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony tests Bucky's loyalty. Steve travels to King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Titles/naming conventions might be slightly different than the show and/or the books in some places. This is intentional to better suit the flow of the story.
> 
> Howard Stark is briefly mentioned in this chapter. Please keep in mind, in this particular story, Howard Stark is equivalent to the Mad King, and he is thus a decidedly worse person than Howard in the MCU.
> 
> Many thanks to [folklejend](https://folklejend.tumblr.com/) for beta reading!

 

It had been a year, and James Buchanan Barnes still didn’t see himself as King in the North. The position didn’t belong to him. It belonged to Steve. It always had. The mantle was too impossibly heavy, and Bucky had no desire to carry it.

He wondered, then, why he hadn’t said no. Of course, it hadn’t been as simple as refusing. King Stark rarely took no for an answer. And in this particular case, Bucky would have feared more than a little for his life if he’d argued against King Stark’s wishes. The threat of death by dragons had only been implied - but then, that threat was _always_ implied with a king whose dragons had razed armies to the ground.

Bucky wasn't the leader that Steve had been. Too often he asked for advice, and too often his will wasn't strong enough to withstand a sensible argument. He never knew with certainty that he was choosing the right path. Every decision took days of deliberation; only with the situation analyzed from every side would Bucky be satisfied. It made Bucky thorough and consistent in a way that Steve had never been, and for some incomprehensible reason, the people loved him for it.

King Stark insisted that Bucky visit King’s Landing on a regular basis. It wasn't a quick trip, and it meant leaving someone else in command while Bucky was away, which Bucky loved and hated in equal parts. As heirs to Winterfell and as skilled fighters, Bucky trusted Wanda and Pietro to keep his interests safe while he was away. But as the (albeit reluctant) guardian of the north, Bucky felt a fraud whenever he abandoned his people and rode south.

There was nothing for it. Bucky had grown used to being pulled in too many directions at once, and when King Stark requested Bucky’s presence, Bucky never argued. What good would it have done? King Stark snapped his fingers and the whole world came to attention. There was something about him, something captivating that had Bucky _desperate_ for his approval, no matter the personal cost.

If Bucky was honest, it wasn’t just approval that he craved. It was attention; more than that, it was affection. Love. Whenever Bucky left King Stark’s side, he was consumed with thoughts of when he could return. When he could see King Stark’s face again. When he could hear that rich laugh, the one that meant King Stark was truly amused. Bucky wondered, sometimes, if it was some kind of spell. He _wanted_ King Stark. The feeling had settled into Bucky’s heart and spun out into his veins, his skin, his bones. Some days, it threatened to consume him, going so far that King Stark’s presence on its own left Bucky short of breath.

He knew it was impossible. King Stark was of noble blood, and Bucky was decidedly not. Even if Bucky was King in the North, he’d come by it through King Stark’s appointment, and he still believed himself unfit for the post. There was no way King Stark would return his affections. Besides, an admission like that would've been dangerous. No matter what kind of personal relationship he and King Stark had, a declaration of feelings could easily cross the boundary into _too bold._ It was never a good idea to test King Stark’s patience.

Bucky slipped his arms into his robe, tightening it around his waist and tying the sash before stepping outside into the morning air. His room had both a fireplace and a private balcony, as King Stark had insisted on nothing less than the best accommodations. That meant Bucky’s room was also in the same wing of the castle as King Stark’s, putting him in King Stark’s path all too often. King Stark looked so much more relaxed at night, the day having worn down every sharp edge until there was only softness in brown eyes. It was torturous - and yet, Bucky preferred it to the alternative. Being too close was better than being too far.

From his balcony, Bucky had a perfect view of the training grounds. The sun had barely risen, still a crescent over the curve of the earth, and in the relative darkness, Bucky could make out King Stark and Lady Natasha, dueling with broadswords. An interesting choice for such an early hour. That likely meant that King Stark hadn’t slept. He called members of the Kingsguard to duel only when there was too much on his mind.

Shaking his head, Bucky returned to his room, finding his clothes and dressing himself for the day. With no formal audiences, plainclothes would do fine, although the cold - how had the cold traveled so far as to reach King’s Landing? - would require a coat. Bucky pulled the silver one from the rack and slipped it on, then took in his appearance in the looking glass, fastening the coat all the way to the neck. It made him look menacing, the light color of the fabric emphasizing the darkness of his hair, his eyes standing out in sharp contrast to the rest of his face. The design did nothing to conceal Bucky's physical fitness. That was almost impossible to hide, even with his days as mercenary and assassin behind him.

Slipping his hands into his black gloves, Bucky stepped out into the hall, closing the door softly behind him. He took the stairs two at a time, the spiral seeming endless until it finally let him out onto the training ground. His breath puffed out in a cloud in front of him, and he pressed forward, approaching as King Stark and Lady Natasha prepared themselves for another round.

“Your Grace,” Bucky said, ducking his head briefly in a gesture of respect.

An easy smile parted King Stark’s lips. “Lord Barnes. Good morning.”

Bucky would never tire of that voice. It sounded almost musical, the cadence changing more whenever King Stark was pleased. “You haven’t slept.”

King Stark said so much without saying anything at all. ‘How is it you know me so well?’ Bucky read in his eyes.

“No rest for the wicked,” King Stark said, letting the tip of his blade rest in the loose earth. “Natasha. I’d like a moment alone with Lord Barnes.”

“Of course.” Lady Natasha retrieved King Stark’s sword, taking it from his hand like it weighed nothing, and Bucky smiled a little. It was refreshing, having a woman at King’s Landing with such similar training. It made Bucky feel less out of place.

As soon as Lady Natasha was gone, Bucky took a moment to just _look._ King Stark was tired, that much was obvious. There was strain around his eyes and mouth, and Bucky heard that same strain in his voice when he spoke. “I received a raven yesterday. From Steve Rogers.”

Bucky’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He tried again. “What?”

“I was as surprised as you are. After all those months of silence, I didn’t think he was coming back.”

Bucky was struck dumb, his lips refusing to make any of the words that had come into his head. King Stark had banished Steve, that was true; but Steve had left without saying goodbye. After everything they'd been through together, Bucky still hadn't forgiven Steve for that.

“What did he say?”

“He said - he said he was _sorry_.” King Stark closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head. “He’s bringing the Wildling army here.”

Bucky swallowed past the knot that had formed in his throat. “Will you grant him an audience?”

It was obvious King Stark didn’t like the answer to that question. “I don’t have a choice. The Wildling army strengthens our numbers and our odds.” King Stark breathed out on a sigh. “I gave my word that I would hold the trial if he completed his task. I owe him a chance, at least.”

“The council will vote against him.”

King Stark’s smile was grim. “I know.”

Of course he did. And if King Stark knew, Steve undoubtedly knew it too. Bucky frowned, worry tangling confusingly with hurt feelings. “He’ll ask for a trial by combat.”

“I _know_.” King Stark considered Bucky, then stepped forward, resting his hands on Bucky's shoulders. The closeness was too much; it set Bucky's skin on fire even through the thick layers of fabric.

“Do you trust me?” King Stark asked.

“Yes,” Bucky said, the hoarseness in his voice betraying him. “Of course.”

“Then trust me in this. I know he’s your friend. He was mine too. Trust that I’ll do what’s right.” King Stark squeezed Bucky’s shoulders, a small gesture of reassurance, before releasing his grip. He smiled, then took a step back, looking Bucky up and down. “Silver suits you. You should wear more of it.”

Bucky felt his face heat at the praise. “If you like it, then I will.”

King Stark raised an eyebrow. “What if I told you I didn’t like it? Would you stop wearing it?”

“Yes.”

A long moment passed, King Stark staring at Bucky, intensely focused. King Stark pursed his lips, and Bucky wondered if that was annoyance or pleasure in his eyes. It was always so difficult to tell; with King Stark, the two were so often intertwined.

“And if I told you to take it off?” King Stark asked, the question sounding falsely innocent.

Bucky held onto his composure despite the fear that prickled in his spine. Every so often, when King Stark tested him like this, Bucky managed to answer wrong. “I will do as my king commands.”

“No matter what I ask?”

“Yes. Always.”

King Stark’s lips curled back to bare his teeth. “Your blind obedience is _infuriating._ ” This time, when King Stark looked Bucky up and down, it was almost predatory. “Fine. You want so badly to follow my commands? Take it off.”

Bucky didn’t know whether or not to look away. He held King Stark’s gaze, moving his hands to the fastenings at his neck. Gods be good, at least his hands were steady. It was only his training that kept him from trembling. His gloved fingers and thumbs moved down, making quick work of the buttons, and Bucky slid one arm out of the coat, then the other, setting it down gently over the fence beside them.

“Good,” King Stark said, crossing his arms. “Now. Spar with me.”

Bucky shook his head. “King Stark-”

“I thought you would do as your king commanded.”

“It won’t be a fair fight.” Bucky braced himself, ready for King Stark to argue.

“You’re right. I’ve never met anyone who could fight like you. Not even Rogers.” King Stark picked up the coat, running a hand over the dyed wool before passing it over. “It’s cold. Put it back on.”

King Stark began to walk away, and Bucky followed, slipping his arms back into the sleeves as he went. A man less familiar with King Stark might've stayed put, but in Bucky’s experience, a person was to stay in King Stark’s presence until he or she was dismissed, even if that meant following King Stark for hours on end.

“Is there any order I could give you that you would disobey?” King Stark asked over his shoulder. They were headed around the side of the tower, toward the cliffside that overlooked Blackwater Bay.

“No,” Bucky replied, bracing himself against the wind.

“Infuriating.” King Stark said it fondly this time, his expression soft. “Your loyalty is more than I’ve earned.”

“That’s not true.”

King Stark straightened, eyes bright with curiosity. “You don’t think so?”

“You freed me from HYDRA. You saved me even though I had hurt the people closest to you.” Bucky had done unforgivable things, things he refused to name. Things he wanted to forget, but couldn't.

“My father was a tyrant, you know,” King Stark said softly. “You did the Seven Kingdoms a service.”

Bucky still didn't believe it any more than he believed he deserved to be Lord of Winterfell. How a Kingslayer had earned favor with a King, Bucky would never know; except that maybe King Howard had been cruel enough to deserve his end, when it had finally come.

“If you say so, Your Grace.”

“I do.” King Stark stared out at the water, his gaze caught somewhere along the line of the horizon. “If I ever become like him, I need you to tell me. I know you're not my Hand, and I know you only want to tell me what I want to hear, but… Gods. If you care for me, promise me you’ll tell me the _truth._ ”

“I promise,” Bucky said in reply.

“Thank you.” King Stark turned to meet Bucky’s eyes, and for a moment it looked like he wanted to say something else. He shook his head wryly instead. “I ought to change. And I'm due for a visit to the baths. Thank you for your company, Lord Barnes.”

“Your Grace.” Bucky bowed, and King Stark smiled before retreating back the way they'd come.

Bucky turned toward the water, watching the waves crest softly, his mind turning in circles. Steve Rogers, returning home. Bucky knew it would plague him as much as it already plagued King Stark; Bucky wouldn't be able to sleep, knowing the year-long silence would soon come to an end. That silence had been safe. It had been painful and terrible, but it had been safe all the same. Bucky had set all the emotions of that day aside, boxed them up and sealed them in his mind as soon as Steve had left King’s Landing. The thought of reopening that box made Bucky’s chest tight.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the air tasting of salt. King Stark would have a plan. King Stark would deal with Steve. And with any luck, Bucky wouldn't need to be involved at all.

~

In the last year, Steve Rogers had become a man who dealt only in extremes.

The climate, the company he kept, his feelings for King Stark - they all swung violently from one side to the other, never stopping in the middle. He’d lived in sweltering heat, then bitter cold. He’d spent his nights alone, then found himself surrounded by Wildlings, never afforded a moment’s peace. He’d fallen out of love with King Stark, knowing banishment would be easier without the weight of what he couldn’t have. But when Steve dreamed, he fell in love all over again, remembering small looks and gestures and the warmth of King Stark’s smile.

Steve had thought to live out his sentence in Dorne. After he'd been commanded to leave, he’d shipped out on the first vessel, refusing to look back. For months Steve had trained with the Dornish athletes, living like men in Dorne, letting his hair and beard grow long. His skin had turned dark under the Dornish sun, his body occupied enough to keep his mind from dwelling on his loss.

And then Steve had received a raven from Sam Wilson.

It had been so long since Steve had seen any of the men of the Night’s Watch. Sam must have known that Steve no longer held Winterfell. So why had Sam chosen Steve, and not Winterfell’s new lord?

_Things have gotten worse,_ Sam had written. _The Army of the Dead comes closer and closer with every passing day. We need more men. We need a_ plan _. Do you have any ideas?_

_Yes,_ Steve had replied. _One._

The idea hadn’t been his. It had been King Stark’s. Gather the Wildlings and march their army to King’s Landing. It was the only thing that might absolve Steve of his guilt; and now, it was the only thing that might save the Seven Kingdoms from the enemy in the north.

White Walkers. He hadn’t doubted Sam, but Steve hadn’t quite believed until he’d seen them for himself. They were truly the stuff of nightmares, terrifying and cold and nearly impossible to kill. No wonder Thor, the leader of the Wildlings, had been so easy to persuade. Alone, the Wildling army would never stand a chance against the Night King’s massive force.

They were several days south of Winterfell, Steve, Sam, and every able-bodied Wildling of the north. Ten thousand men and women, all camped just east of the Whispering Wood. Night had fallen an hour before, and the lights of the camp were bright against the sky. The cold was less bitter down here, but the night was no less dark.

They’d received a raven earlier that morning. Steve had waited to open it, allowing the scroll to burn a hole in his pocket as they rode. Now that he was alone, in the safety of his tent, he still wasn’t sure he was prepared to read King Stark’s reply. He held the scroll in his hand, wondering at how something so small could carry so much weight.

“Come on, Rogers.” He took a deep breath, then unrolled the scroll. He stared, tracing the tight scrawl with his eyes until even the light of the fire wasn’t enough to see by. The darkness didn’t matter. The words smoldered like hot coals, still bright in his mind’s eye.

_Your words of apology are meaningless. Speak with your actions, or else do not speak at all._

It was biting, but that much, Steve had expected. He had waited too long to apologize. He’d known it wouldn’t be enough. Steve would have to prove himself again, and even if he did, King Stark might not forgive him. A trial by combat was his only option. Steve had to hope that King Stark would permit that kind of trial at all.

Sam stepped into the tent unannounced, and Steve looked up, surprised.

“Have you put that down once since you opened it?” Sam asked.

“No,” Steve said heavily. “I keep wanting it to say something different, but it never does.”

Sam sat down on the stool beside the fading fire, watching the smoke as it curled upward and disappeared through the smoke cap out into the air. “What do you want it to say?”

“That I'm forgiven. That I won't be killed the second I set foot on southern soil.”

“You’re not much of a realist, are you?”

Steve sighed. “No. I’m an idealist. Or at least, I was. I’m not sure what I am any more.”

Sam grinned at him. “You’re shaggy, that’s what you are.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “The beard keeps me warm.”

“It makes you look like a Wildling.”

“Well. At least I’m in good company.” Steve stared down at the scroll again, then crumpled it into his fist, ready to throw it into the fire. He drew his arm back, then hesitated, his palm falling weakly into his lap. “Why do I care so much what he thinks of me?”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Do you really want to hear the answer to that?”

“No.” Steve let his shoulders sag, tucking the scroll safely under his pillow. He knew the answer as well as Sam did, but he didn’t want to hear it. His feelings had complicated things enough. Better to focus on their goal: saving the Seven Kingdoms.

“You miss him.” Sam’s voice was serious, and for the first time, Steve didn't deny that it was true.

“It doesn't matter. We’ll see him soon enough.”

Sam nodded, standing and leaving the tent. Steve stared into the fire a while longer, then crawled under the blankets and tugged them over his head, King Stark’s words still burned behind his eyes.

~

“Come in.”

Banner opened the door and closed it softly, and Tony could see in his periphery how Banner stayed close to the wall instead of stepping forward.

Tony looked up from his work. “Maester Banner.”

“Your Grace.”

Tony returned his attention to his parchment. “Apparently every man in King’s Landing _urgently_ requires my signature.”

Banner took a step closer. “You might let your Hand do some of that.”

Tony shook his head. “As long as I am in King’s Landing, I’ll sign all of them myself. I can't let another man bear my burden.”

“Is that because it's actually a burden? Or because you don't trust another to understand your will?”

“Would you trust someone to know your mind so well? I've been down that path once before. I won't do it again, not even if I trust Lord Jarvis with my life.” Tony signed one final document, then set his quill down. “I received word that Rogers is a day’s ride from King’s Landing.”

Lines of worry appeared on Banner’s forehead. “Then I'm here as a friend and not a Maester.”

“Yes. I need someone to listen. There's no one else I trust.”

“What about Lord Barnes?”

“He has a history with Rogers. And besides, I haven't shared my plan with him. I can't.”

“I understand.” Banner paused, finally taking a seat in front of Tony. “Does Rogers’ return trouble you so much?”

_“Yes._ ” Gods, did it bother him. It would've been so much easier if Rogers had stayed away. Tony was tense. Nervous. Angry. Part of him wanted to cut Rogers down, and another part wanted to bypass the trial altogether with an unconditional pardon. Tony’s thoughts had been consumed with little else, and now with just a day between them, Tony’s head was starting to pound, his jaw aching from keeping his teeth clenched so tightly together.

Tony sighed, leaning back in his chair. “If you were in my place, what would you do?”

“I don’t know. My heart doesn’t speak to me the way yours does to you.”

“My heart tells me so many stories I can hardly keep them straight.” Tony let out a frustrated noise. Even his patience with himself was wearing thin. “Just… Am I doing the right thing?”

Banner shrugged. “I don't know. It's a fair test of loyalty on both sides. And it’s about time we changed the rules for trials by combat. Even if it's not right, it does what you need it to do.”

Tony stared, unseeing, at the papers in front of him. “Lord Barnes will never forgive me.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“No?”

Banner waited until Tony looked up. “He loves you. He’d forgive you almost anything.”

“That just means I’m abusing his affection.”

“You're doing what you have to do to preserve the realm,” Banner said, more emphatic than Tony was prepared for. “That's all anyone expects. Including Lord Barnes.”

Tony sighed in resignation. Banner was right. _In service of the realm_. That one phrase had become Tony's single guiding principle. If it didn't serve the realm, it was inconsequential. If it _did_ serve the realm, nothing was more important. Proving power and offering mercy were the two things he needed to accomplish. Those were the things that would serve the realm best. Pitting Rogers and Lord Barnes against each other and stopping the fighting to save them both would be a suitable enough means. Tony only hoped Lord Barnes would forgive him for the deception.

If he didn't… So be it. It needed to be done.

“Keep our contingent back until I've given Rogers his greeting. Only bring Barnes forward once I've said his name.”

“Planning something theatrical?”

“Maybe.” Tony barely reacted to Banner’s smile. “I only plan to scare him a little.”

“Whenever you say that, men end up nearly shitting themselves.”

“They all know I have the dragons. It's not my fault they don't expect them.”

“You're right about that.” Banner’s smile faded into something serious. “My advice, Your Grace, is to get some sleep. You've thought about this long enough. Tomorrow will bring what it will bring.”

Tony gave a small nod of agreement. “Thank you, Maester.”

“Your Grace.”

Banner rose and left, giving a brief bow and a murmured, “Goodnight.” Tony sat alone in the silence, twirling the quill between his fingers, wondering how Banner expected him to get any sleep at all.

~

The messenger with news of Rogers’ arrival came before dawn.

Tony wasn’t asleep. He was seated on the Iron Throne, as he had been for hours, his right elbow on the armrest, his index finger pressed into his temple.

“King Stark.” Peter’s voice echoed loudly in the empty chamber. “He’s here.”

Tony sighed, standing up. “Well. I suppose I should hear what he has to say.”

The dragons were outside this morning, circling the towers of the Red Keep. As soon as Tony set foot onto the roof - it had taken ten minutes to climb the stairs - Striker was there, landing on the ledge. It was uncanny, the way the dragons knew him. They could tell his mood and his whims just by his scent. They knew when they were needed and when it was best to keep away.

Striker lowered her head, and green eyes followed Tony as he made his way up to her shoulders, using each scale as a foothold as he climbed onto Striker’s back. God, she was beautiful, the same rich, deep color of red clay. Her scales shimmered, reflecting the torchlight from the tower’s entrance, and Tony settled himself between two of her spikes, holding on as Striker lifted herself up, spreading her wings wide. A rush of cold air, a ripple of muscles, and then they were no longer connected to the earth.

The first time they'd flown, they had very nearly spun out of control. Tony hadn't known how to give directions. He hadn't been thinking clearly. In fact, the only thought in his head had been to hold on for dear life; and Tony had done just that. Since then, Striker had grown. She was easier to ride and easier to handle, and she and Tony had become so used to one another that it was as if they were a single being when they flew. In the sky, Tony and the dragon were one and the same.

Tony held tight as Striker rose higher and higher into the air, wings pumping until they’d reached the lowest clouds.

“You remember Rogers, don’t you?” Tony asked over the soft whistle of the wind, rubbing the side of Striker’s neck. He felt more than heard her rumble in reply. “Wait for him. He’s the one we want.”

~

Steve had walked the final two days to King’s Landing, if only because he hadn't been able to sit still on the horse. He had been restless, too tense with the anticipation of seeing King Stark again. Would it be a good reunion? Or would it end with Steve’s head on a spike? It was impossible to guess. Steve thanked the old Gods and the new that it would all be over soon.

The silhouette of the city grew larger and larger in the pale light before the dawn. A feeling of familiarity washed over Steve as they marched down toward what was left of the Dragonpit; Steve had made this walk hundreds of times before, but never under circumstances like these. The nostalgia was oppressive, and Steve cast it away with a quick shake of his head.

“You look nervous,” Sam said, suddenly beside him.

“Aren't you?”

“No. I figure as long as I bow and don't say anything stupid, I’ll be alright. I'm just glad to be warm.”

Sam was only half right. The south might’ve been warmer than the wall, but winter was on the wind, a biting cold that cut underneath the summer breeze, making it burn. Steve had learned in his time beyond the wall that the cold burned like nothing else. It crept into fingers and toes. It slithered under clothes. It burrowed into hearts, making them shrivel and die. King Stark’s silence had been another kind of cold, one Steve had hated more than anything. Steve would always take fire over ice; he would always take rage over indifference.

Finally, they stepped into the stone circle, Sam on Steve’s right, Thor on his left. The army was gathered far behind, awaiting orders. A hundred feet away, Steve could make out bodies, dark shapes in the low light. Why had King Stark’s men not come closer? What were they waiting for?

Thor was the first to look up. Steve followed his gaze, squinting, just making out the shadow of-

A dragon.

Of course. How could Steve have been so stupid as to believe King Stark might arrive on horseback? No. King Stark would want to make an entrance. Riding in on a dragon was exactly the show of power King Stark was famous for.

There weren't words for the way a dragon looked descending to the earth; but Steve couldn't deny that in that moment, he felt like prey. He was frozen in place, watching the dragon widen its claws, scooping air under its wings to slow its fall. Finally, Steve could make out the dragon’s color. _Striker,_ he thought. King Stark’s favorite.

When Steve had left, Striker had barely been big enough to ride. And now… Now she could’ve swallowed a horse whole. She was huge, her spikes as tall as a man, her body too massive to take in all at once. She was beautiful. Beautiful and terrifying.

“Oh shit.” Sam backed up, lifting an arm to protect his face as the air around them moved with Striker’s wings. When she landed, her claws scraped the earth, making the ground beneath them shudder and shake.

Suddenly, it was all too real. Steve was about to see King Stark for the first time in a year. How had he changed? Was he still the man that Steve remembered? Would he still inspire the same fear, the same awe, the same abject adoration?

Some part of Steve thought it might be a better idea to turn tail and run. He kept himself rooted where he stood, his eyes trained on the dragon’s back, watching as King Stark descended and approached them with measured steps.

Steve swallowed, bowing and dropping onto one knee. There was the sound of boots on the earth, and then King Stark’s legs came into view, stopping just a foot away.

“Get up.”

Steve did as he was told, his focus narrowed so far that the rest of the world had disappeared. A pang of longing shot through him, and he stared, his breath shallow, his heartbeat thundering in his throat. _Tony._

“King Stark,” Steve greeted softly.

“Lord Rogers.”

The title was some kind of cruel courtesy; Steve wasn't lord of anything any more. King Stark smiled, daggers in his eyes, stepping back just as slowly as he’d approached. He looked Steve over, then opened his hands, palms facing up. For some reason, that gesture filled Steve with dread.

“Welcome back to King’s Landing.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Next chapter will have the trial by combat. As always, feel free to comment or message me on [tumblr](https://sopherfly.tumblr.com) with any questions.


	3. Trial by Combat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve requests a trial by combat. King Stark chooses Bucky as his champion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Canon-typical violence in this chapter (combat, blood, etc.). Many thanks to [folklejend](folklejend.tumblr.com) for beta reading!

  

Steve’s heart might not have stopped, but it was a near thing. Every buried feeling rose to the surface at once, choking him so that he couldn’t speak or swallow. He opened his mouth soundlessly. He’d imagined this moment so many times, imagined what he might say, what it might be like to see King Stark again. Now that the moment had arrived, Steve found he was too stunned to move, too overcome with fear and relief to say anything at all.

King Stark stared, appraising him, that sharp, wordless gaze lingering on Steve’s beard - whether in contempt or appreciation, Steve didn’t know. He had forgotten what it felt like to be in King Stark’s presence, to endure King Stark’s carefully controlled scrutiny and still desire more. What would he give for King Stark to admire, rather than criticize? What would it take to see the same fondness he’d once seen in warm brown eyes, rather than contempt? It was too much to hope for, and yet he hoped for it all the same.

Steve breathed out, smiling weakly, finally finding his voice enough to mumble, “Your Grace.”

A slight rise in King Stark’s eyebrows was Steve’s only indication he’d been heard. Steve frowned, noticing now that new lines had appeared on King Stark’s face, under his eyes, between his brows, on either side of his mouth. He looked thinner, the bones of his cheeks and jaw more pronounced than Steve remembered. There were more flecks of grey in his raven hair, too, the light color creeping up toward his temples, thrown into sharp relief by the deep black of his coat.

When had King Stark ever worn something so dark? Steve was used to seeing bright blue, deep green, red paired with gold, all dyed to complement the dragons. Black made King Stark look… mournful. Severe. Steve had no doubt the choice had been purposeful. King Stark took great care selecting every garment he wore. Each piece of clothing was intended to elicit a reaction, to make a statement. This piece, dark with sharp angles and full sleeves, looking more like armor than fabric, sent a clear message. It was a reminder of the death of all Steve remembered. His friendship with King Stark. His position leading King Stark’s armies. Perhaps it even heralded the end of his life, though Steve would only know that after he stood trial.

Steve heard the garment’s second message, too. If it hadn’t been for Steve’s betrayal, King Stark would not have been forced to wear such a coat in the first place.

_I’m sorry,_ Steve tried to say with only his eyes. _I wish I could change it. I wish I could take it back._

There was no wisdom in saying those words aloud, not until Steve won his trial and was granted a true audience. King Stark was still too proud. An outright apology would doubtless stoke the fires of King Stark’s temper, and Steve knew better than to fan those flames, no matter how badly he longed to clear the air.

King Stark broke the silence, his lips curled in something barely resembling a smile. “Speechless? That’s new.” He paused, eyes narrowing, menace written into the gesture. “Or maybe it’s that you’ve finally learned to consider your words before you say them.”

Steve fought the impulse to look guiltily away. He deserved that. He deserved _more_ than that. For all he’d done, King Stark’s response felt tame. He had expected raging anger, the kind Howard had served to his subjects whenever they had displeased him. King Stark, he had come to realize, was far more complex than his father. His fits of anger were less likely to end in combat and beheadings, and more likely to burn low and long, never exploding and never dying out.

Steve kept his mouth closed, lips pressed together in a thin line. King Stark set traps at nearly every turn, each word barbed and venomous. Any reply Steve gave might be the wrong one. He had learned that much, at least. “Your Grace,” Steve said again, more clearly than before, trying to make it sound like an agreement.

A hint of annoyance passed across King Stark’s face, vanishing just as quickly as it had appeared. Not the right answer, but not wrong enough for King Stark to say so.

“Well.” King Stark cocked his head to the side, raising his eyebrows expectantly. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Steve suddenly remembered that he and King Stark weren’t alone. Gods, it had been so easy, allowing the rest of the world to disappear. Was Steve so obsessed with King Stark that he had forgotten their true purpose in marching the Wildling army south, to protect the realm from the White Walkers? No - obsessed was too tame a word, Steve was forced to admit. He had thought of nothing, _dreamt_ of nothing but King Stark for months. He still carried King Stark’s letter in his pocket. He would forgive King Stark any wrong, defend King Stark as long as he had breath. He longed to know every one of King Stark’s thoughts, even those that were not complimentary toward him.

As if Steve had need to add to his obsession, his memories did not do the man justice. King Stark might have looked older and thinner, more tired than he ever had, but he was still beautiful. Strong. The most enigmatic, charismatic man Steve had ever met. He commanded Steve’s attention without uttering a single word. Steve’s attraction to King Stark had never been more powerful; it made his mind slow and his eyes nearly blind, incapable of seeing anything but King Stark before him.

“Of course,” Steve said, struggling to ground himself, belatedly remembering his surroundings. “Your Grace. This is Sam Wilson, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

Sam bowed low enough that he was nearly kneeling on the ground, the black cloak of the Night’s Watch pooling at his feet. He rose slowly, carefully, meeting King Stark’s eyes.

“Lord Commander. You’re certainly far from home.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Sam said it with more deference than Steve had managed, and King Stark looked briefly pleased.

“They tell me winter is coming.” King Stark searched Sam’s face, inquisitive and doubtful. “Is it true?”

Sam nodded solemnly, his expression grave. “Yes, Your Grace. Winter is coming. Snow has already reached the Twins.”

Steve watched King Stark’s eyes flicker with recognition. The Twins weren’t far from King’s Landing, and it was obvious that King Stark understood the danger as well as Sam did. Winter didn’t just mean cold. It meant dead crops and tired soldiers and starving subjects, with no end in sight. The last true winter had gone on for years. If King Stark was as ill-prepared as the south had been last time… Steve didn’t follow that thought to its end. King Stark would heed the warning. All King Stark did was in service of the realm. Surely a frozen realm - or a realm whose subjects became the living dead - was not what King Stark wanted.

Sam gestured briefly to Thor. “This is Thor, the leader of the Free Folk. He and his people are here to offer aid in the war to come.”

King Stark nodded in Thor’s direction. There was more suspicion in King Stark’s eyes now, as if he trusted Thor less than Sam. Steve knew Thor to be as honest as any man, but he couldn’t criticize King Stark for judging appearances. Thor looked every inch a Wildling; his blond hair, long and unkempt, was held out of his face by small braids at the front, and he was covered from head to toe in rough animal skins and furs, held together with twine.

Thor seemed unfazed by King Stark, not bowing or making any show of respect. “The dragons.” Thor stared past King Stark, his fascinated gaze fixed on Striker. “How old are they?”

“Two years.”

Gods, had it already been so long? Steve remembered the night of the fire so clearly. He could still taste the smoke, acrid and bitter in his mouth; he could still feel the choking panic as he’d watched King Stark’s clothes and hair burn, disintegrating into ash. The dragon eggs had hatched, and the newborn creatures had clung to King Stark as he emerged unharmed from the smoke. Steve had watched the dragons grow, their loyalty to King Stark never wavering. He followed Thor’s gaze, wondering what Striker or her siblings might do to him if King Stark did not show him mercy. Steve had feared beheading - now he recalled that there were other ways to kill a man.

“They have growing yet to do,” Thor said.

“That’s what I’ve been led to understand.” King Stark turned briefly over his shoulder, casting a fond glance at Striker. “They’ve grown so much already. I can’t imagine them getting any bigger. But my lack of imagination has never stopped progress before.”

He took a step back and straightened, assuming a more authoritative stance. “Lady Natasha,” he called, loud enough to make Steve’s ears ring. “Please escort our guests to their quarters. See that they are given everything they require.”

Lady Natasha emerged from somewhere behind King Stark, approaching Sam and Thor and shepherding them away. Thor seemed entirely too pleased to see a woman in knight’s clothing, and Lady Natasha ignored his undisguised appreciation, encouraging him to keep moving by tapping her sword against one of his boots. He jumped, speeding his pace, walking backwards to keep his eyes trained on her until she passed him.

Steve looked again behind King Stark, retracing Natasha’s path with his eyes and discovering a line of soldiers. They hadn’t been there when Striker had first landed, Steve was sure, but he hadn’t noticed them arrive, too preoccupied with King Stark to notice what was happening right in front of him. Every fourth man carried King Stark’s banner, and Steve saw the Maesters, too, Banner and Pym. Lord Jarvis, Steve noted, was markedly absent.

None of them approached. They kept a fair distance, allowing King Stark to maintain his singular control. Steve wondered what had made King Stark think so many soldiers were necessary. No matter the outcome, Steve didn’t plan to run.

“Well.” King Stark fixed Steve with an impenetrable stare. “You’ve done what I asked. You must be itching for a trial.”

Steve inclined his head. “Your Grace.”

King Stark’s look of annoyance didn’t disappear this time. It stayed settled in his jaw and behind his eyes, and Steve couldn’t help but compare King Stark to his dragons, beautiful and short-tempered and dangerous. “That’s not an answer.”

Steve licked his lips, nervousness making them dry. “You’re right.”

Dark eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. Steve could count on one hand the number of times he had subverted King Stark’s expectations enough to merit that kind of response. Did King Stark think so little of him? Did he imagine Steve would still refuse to concede any argument?

“I’m… _right_.” King Stark smiled cruelly. “Then I must also be right in assuming you plan to request a trial by combat.”

Steve’s face flushed with heat. No matter the time or distance, King Stark knew him too well. Or perhaps it was that he had become too predictable. “Yes, Your Grace.”

King Stark didn’t react. “With whom as your champion?”

“Myself.”

A long pause. King Stark pursed his lips. “Why?”

Steve took in a breath, turning the question over in his mind. What answer would displease King Stark the least? There was no way to be sure. “It was my crime,” he said solemnly. “No one else’s. I should be held responsible.”

“So you should,” King Stark replied, his voice growing soft, his expression entirely unreadable. “Very well, _Lord_ Rogers. I accept your terms. And I choose as my champion… James Buchanan Barnes.”

~

Bucky did not understand the order to follow Maester Banner out into the early dawn.

The note had surely been written in King Stark’s hand; he’d read enough scrolls from King Stark to recognize the king’s tight scrawl. The parchment itself had been delivered by King Stark’s servant, stamped with the king’s seal. There was no question of the order’s credibility. It was the substance that gave Bucky pause. If King Stark had expected Bucky to be present when Steve arrived, why had he not said so the last time they had spoken?

Setting his hesitance aside, Bucky followed Maester Banner and the assembled guards, wondering why King Stark had chosen the Dragon Pit as their meeting place. Did he plan to make a display of the dragons? For what purpose? To show their size and strength? Steve ought to have guessed the dragons’ size without seeing them at all. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the smaller creatures from a year ago becoming great and large and terrible, not when the bones of other dragons, buried under the castle, showed such incredible size. Steve and Bucky had both seen those bones. They had known the dragons would grow.

Still, Steve might be surprised. Frightened, even. It was one thing to know the dragons were monstrously large, and another thing to see them in the flesh. Steve also had a habit of underestimating King Stark, or else he didn’t have a creative enough imagination. King Stark tended toward theatrical. He enjoyed his audiences, enjoyed manipulating them as much as he enjoyed bending people to his will.

King Stark might have taken pleasure in making men dance, but he cared deeply about his people and his kingdom. His theatrics, however grand, always served a purpose. There was a reason King Stark had chosen to flaunt the dragons; so, too, there must have been a reason that Bucky had been called to bear witness to Steve’s return. Bucky wondered what reason that could be. He didn’t want to be assigned to Steve’s Council, and he had no interest in watching Steve die, if that was the direction things went. What other role could he possibly play? Would Steve choose Bucky as his champion in a trial by combat? And if so, would King Stark even allow it?

Briefly, Bucky closed his eyes. He trusted King Stark. King Stark had given him more than he deserved, treated him like an equal despite his past. There was no reason for Bucky to be nervous. And yet he felt his palms sweating, his heart beating fast. Perhaps there was more to this first meeting than there appeared to be.

The conversation between Steve and King Stark was audible, if only just. The Dragon Pit had been constructed in such a way that the sound echoed from the center and bounced off to the sides. The original builders had intended that to frighten spectators, back when the pit had been used for dragon fights. Now it allowed Bucky and the assembled soldiers to overhear even from afar.

“I’m… right.”

Bucky winced. Though he couldn’t see Steve’s face, trapped as he was behind the Maesters, he knew that King Stark was displeased.

“Then I must also be right in assuming you plan to request a trial by combat.”

Bucky held his breath. King Stark would not have mentioned a trial by combat if he didn’t plan to make Steve fight. No Council, then. No hope of resolution without death on one side.

“With whom as your champion?”

“Myself.”

Bucky hadn’t expected any less. Steve refused to let anyone else fight his battles.

“Very well, Lord Rogers. I accept your terms. And I choose as my champion… James Buchanan Barnes.”

The sound of his own name hit him like freezing water, squeezing the air out of his lungs. His muscles tensed. His jaw clamped tightly shut. He felt the Maester’s hand on his shoulder, holding him in place as if he planned to run. Bucky could have escaped that grip easily, if only the strength hadn’t drained from his body like blood from a sacrificial lamb. The dragons had only been a distraction. This was the true display of power. Bucky and Steve would fight each other, willingly, to the death. Because their king had commanded it.

For a moment, the panic was blinding. Bucky had craved an opportunity to fight for his king, to show his skill in the arena where it belonged. Not as the leader of a people, but as a warrior. He had never imagined being called upon to fight like this. This was the wrong opportunity, the wrong battle. It was poisoned with King Stark’s resentment, ordered as retribution. This was a fight Bucky couldn’t win. No matter what he did, he would lose - his honor or his oldest friend.

Bucky swallowed, his mouth dry, his pulse thrumming in his throat. King Stark’s choice of champion was an order, as clear as any other. Bucky could do nothing but accept. His king willed it; so it would be.

He tried to move, tried to turn his head to look at Steve or at King Stark, but the shock had stunned him into stillness. Was this truly King Stark’s will? To pit the two of them against each other in a fight to the death? Were they each expendable? He blinked. He felt the Maester’s grip tighten on his shoulder, and then he was struggling to move forward, his feet heavy like lead. Gods be good, he wasn’t dreaming. This was real.

The walls of the Dragon Pit passed by as if in slow motion, a blur of sand and stone. Blood rushed in his ears, drowning out the sound of his own footsteps. It took what felt like days to cross the distance, step after painful step, until King Stark and Steve were before him.

“Your Grace,” Bucky murmured, incapable of saying anything more. He looked at Steve only once, quickly, the shock still written on Steve’s features. He didn’t dare meet King Stark’s eyes; he couldn’t trust himself to keep his emotions well enough contained.

“Tony-” Steve stopped short, realizing his mistake. “King Stark. Does - does it have to be _him_?”

King Stark smiled, his teeth bared. “Yes.” It had all the venom of a snakebite, and Steve twitched as if tempted to step back. King Stark continued, “You _do_ still want a trial by combat?”

Steve nodded, and Bucky didn’t blame Steve for it. It would take a very particular Council to vote in Steve’s favor. Combat was still his best option.

“And will you choose a new champion?”

Steve shook his head. Too proud to let anyone else fight for him. Too invested to let anyone else hurt Bucky to further his own agenda. Bucky tasted bitter disappointment in his mouth, making his lips turn down. King Stark certainly knew how to play the game. Bucky had hoped for something less deceitful. Something less cruel.

“Well then,” King Stark said. “The rules are set. We’ll have your trial here. Today.” He gestured to the center of the circle. “Select your weapons. You have ten minutes to prepare.”

~

Bucky watched, detached, as the soldiers laid the weapons out. He saw Steve in his periphery, knew Steve wanted nothing more than to speak to him, to apologize. It was no use. It wouldn’t change their situation. An apology, from where Bucky was standing, was just an empty gesture.

“Bucky.”

Bucky shook his head, refusing to engage.

_“Bucky_ ,” Steve tried again, sounding more insistent. Bucky glanced up. “You know I don’t want to fight you.”

“I know,” Bucky replied, devoid of all emotion. “We don’t have a choice.”

Bucky eyed the weapons, resisting the urge to pick them up and test them. He’d used them all before, knew his specialties as well as his weaknesses. Knives, he decided, picking up four by their wooden handles. Bucky was deadly with knives.

He saw Steve take the wooden shield and growled to himself. If Steve was as predictable in the fight as he was choosing his weapons, it would be no contest. Bucky would kill Steve if he had to, if his king commanded it. He didn’t want it to be _easy._

The center of the Dragon Pit formed a natural ring, and Bucky stepped inside it, waiting for Steve to join him on the opposite side. Someone, probably the guards, had fetched chairs for the king and the Maesters, setting them ten yards from the edge of the ring. Bucky watched King Stark sit slowly, eyes trained on him, unflinching.

Bucky had fought in competition before. He’d fought in front of King Stark. There was no reason for him to be anxious, and yet, he couldn’t stop looking, not even when Maester Banner rang the bell to signal the beginning of the fight.

Bucky turned his attention briefly to Steve, who had taken up a defensive stance. Two of Bucky’s knives were sheathed in his belt, while the remaining two were clutched one in each hand. Steve moved first, taking a step to the side. Bucky countered. Steve moved again. Bucky stayed put, knees bent, knives ready. He cast another brief glance at King Stark.

Steve lunged.

Bucky ducked out of the way and rolled into a somersault, landing on his feet. _Seven hells._ He needed to focus. He cast King Stark out of his mind, ignoring his surroundings until all he could see was Steve. Step. Counter. Step. Counter. Steve lunged again. Bucky dodged.

If this had been a fight with true spectators, they would have been sorely disappointed. There was no danger in this, no sport. It was two cautions men circling each other, neither willing to make a move. Bucky was allowing personal bias to bleed into the ring when he should have been following his objective: take out his opponent. He was a Kingslayer, after all. It was time he fought like one.

Bucky waited until Steve shifted his weight, then sprinted forward, seeking an opening. Steve drove the shield forward into Bucky’s chest, and Bucky took the impact, reaching around to slash the side of Steve’s arm. Steve jerked back, but it was too late. The knife had gone deep, straight through the muscle, slicing flesh as Steve pulled away. Bucky kept hold of the handle and moved out of Steve’s reach, watching Steve’s face contort, the weight of the shield too much for his injured arm.

Steve let the shield drop to the ground, his arm limp at his side, blood streaming down toward his wrist. It wasn’t deep enough to kill him, not right away. The placement was wrong; it wouldn’t put him in danger of bleeding out before the fight was done. But it was deep, and Bucky knew from experience how much it hurt. He kept his eyes on Steve, wiping the dirty knife blade on his trousers. Blood. So much of Steve’s blood, on Bucky’s hands, on his clothes, splattered on his face. Bucky wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. So much and not enough.

Steve picked up the shield with his uninjured arm and charged forward. This time Bucky barely kept his feet underneath him, the force of the blow was so strong. Strong enough to snap bone, if Bucky had caught the shield with his forearm instead of his shoulder. Bucky pushed the shield upward, getting in one clean swipe over Steve’s abdomen before the shield came down again, knocking him back.

Bucky dove to the ground, and Steve failed to stop him before he sliced the back of one leg, bringing Steve to his knees. Bucky grabbed for Steve’s arm, and the shield blocked him again. Bucky scrambled to his feet, faster than Steve, but not faster than the shield. His blade missed Steve’s shoulder, grazing Steve’s cheek instead.

Death by a thousand cuts. If Bucky planned to kill Steve this way, it would take hours, and there was no assurance it would work, no guarantee Steve wouldn’t bludgeon him to death with that shield first. With Bucky’s head in the wrong place, still hazy from King Stark’s surprise, they were too evenly matched. It was time to take more drastic measures.

Bucky stopped abruptly, his fighting stance abandoned, his arms limp at his sides, then held open as if inviting an attack.

Steve hesitated, confused. “Bucky. What-”

“Fight me, Steve.” Bucky opened his hands, letting the knives fall to the ground. “No weapons. No holding back. Just you and me.”

Steve stood still, holding Bucky’s gaze. Bucky saw the muscle working in his jaw; Steve was considering it. And he would realize, as Bucky had, that this was the only way to finish the fight. Bucky wanted to curse King Stark for putting him in this position, for making it impossible to win without forcing Steve to drop the shield. But was it King Stark’s fault? If all it took was a betrayal from King Stark to distract Bucky from the fight, what use was he to King Stark, anyway?

“Fine.” Steve threw the shield to the ground where it clattered against the stone. “Just you and me.”

One circle. Another. After all this time Steve was still so _cautious_ , and Bucky had had enough. He moved left, then lunged right, his fist driving straight into Steve’s abdomen. Steve doubled over, the wind knocked from his body, pain no doubt radiating through the cut Bucky had already given him, and Bucky brought a booted foot down to crack Steve’s kneecap, wringing a cry of pain from Steve’s throat.

Steve stumbled, unsteady, and Bucky surged forward again, shoulder slamming into Steve’s stomach to try to take him all the way down. Bucky hadn’t expected Steve to grab hold of his _hair_. A strong hand gripped and yanked, pulling Bucky up and back, and then Steve’s elbow connected with his jaw, knocking him off balance. He couldn’t catch himself in time, and his own elbow cracked painfully on the stone, the skin splitting open.

Bucky was halfway through hauling himself to his feet when Steve charged at him, pinning him bodily to the ground. Bucky rolled them over, but Steve used the momentum to roll them again, knocking Bucky’s head back and getting a hand around Bucky’s throat.

Suddenly both of Steve's hands were around Bucky’s neck, pressing hard, depriving him of blood and oxygen. He struggled, grabbing Steve’s wrists, but Steve wasn't releasing that iron grip for anything. Bucky’s vision darkened dangerously. No way to break free, no way to retaliate. The knives weren’t in reach. Bucky felt consciousness disappearing fast. Steve’s face became all mottled spots, swimming in front of him until it faded completely into black.

_“Stop.”_

Instantly, the pressure eased, and the blood rushed back to Bucky’s head with so much force he had to close his eyes against the sensation. Bucky coughed, sputtered, gasped for breath around his bruised throat and his disbelief. That had been King Stark’s voice. King Stark had halted the fighting.

“If Lord Barnes will yield,” King Stark said, the sound ringing in Bucky’s ears, “then Rogers’ trial is won.”

With effort, Bucky blinked his eyes open. He had to yield. Wanted to yield. But some part of him _didn’t._ Part of him, the part that had killed King Howard with a single stroke of his sword, wanted to use the moment to regain the advantage and drive Steve straight into the ground.

He breathed in once, then twice. King Stark’s will - it was to stop the fighting. This had been his intent all along. Pit the players against each other, then step in to offer mercy. Bucky cursed. It should have been Bucky with his hands around Steve’s throat. King Stark’s mercy should have gone to Steve, not him.

Bucky let his head drop back, guilt and defeat burning in his throat and behind his eyes. “I yield,” he said, the words as coarse as sand.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading (and for your patience in waiting for this chapter to be posted!) Next chapter will include Steve's audience with King Stark and Lord Jarvis's return. (And maybe some WinterIron??)


End file.
